


Your lasso wound around my neck

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Aziraphale is stronk, Bentley is a Horse, Come all ye faithful and lets get into this mess, Crowley is a Ranchero, Crowley is real bad at naming things ok, Honeyspice is Aziraphale's Horse, Is the end goal here buckaroos, Lots of Whiskey, Lots of pine scent, M/M, Marjorie Potts is a MEDDLER and we love her, Mutual Pining, Rated M for Mutual Pining, Shh Crowley's an outlaw and no one's supposed to know, So much pine for so little tree cover in the fucking desert, Strength Kink, Yes we stan Chuck Tingle in this House, and only knows like 40 words in spanish, cut him some slack for the ranch name, he was put on the spot, lots of metaphors, mainly of food, predominantly Aziraphale POV, probably, riding off into the sunset, ropes and binds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24651685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Aziraphale Fell is a farrier by trade, and a blacksmith of course. It's 1850-something and he's just left one ghost town and is in search of somewhere else.He's never been good at putting down roots no matter how hard he tries, but then he meets one Mr. Anthony Crowley, the ranchero of El Yermo Ranch. The smell and crack of ozone seems to fit between them every time they touch and his voice is like nothing else, but surely it's all too good to be true, right?Anthony J. Crowley's got some secrets; some good, some bad, and some ugly, but that's never stopped Aziraphale from doing his job before.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 62
Collections: Can't no preacher man save my soul, Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Bad Things

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter has another song from my [Western Omens playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0MIMpL3RpeoFdmmxwKvTty?si=d0yMxlsfTGKcwOXI9sPTtA) and if you have any suggestions for it, let me know!
> 
> Fic title is part of the chorus from [Lasso](https://open.spotify.com/track/1UiAgtdsKmrWIGD954dgxf) by Gabe Lopez

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song and title [Bad Things](https://open.spotify.com/track/4VIDVd87GQcBSbofvDp8Pj) by Jace Everett

Settlers moved West; taking their horses and their wagons with them, and all sorts of other things that folks needed blacksmiths and farriers for It had been going on for some time; towns would pop up around places that seemed like there was fortune to be had for one reason or another. And they’d just as quickly turn into ghost towns when people moved on. Sometimes there’d be people that stayed behind; farmers and the like who’d make their bread and farm their lots as they saw fit. 

Aziraphale never felt like he was supposed to settle down with them.

There was something that kept him pressing on, no matter how difficult it was to pack up his things and hope there was work enough in the next town to feed himself and his mare, Honeyspice. 

Aziraphale patted the neck of his faithful companion, some dust rising off her dusky red back and falling to settle invisibly on her darker legs and under her hooves, and sighed. They were headed west again and he’d walk just as often as he’d ride. No point in making Honeyspice haul him too when she was already doing the bulk of the work; pulling the little wagon of supplies they’d need on the road, as well as his personal, custom tools that he always took with him. 

Aziraphale was running after something, but he wasn’t sure what it was just yet. Sometimes he thought it might be the vibrant red of the sunset in the distance, and he’d have to stop as soon as he was at the far western shore and find some other thing to chase. Other times he thought that maybe he was pursuing the hope of finding somewhere he could settle down for good, somewhere he could belong. 

And sometimes, alone on dark and moonless nights, he admitted to himself that maybe he was chasing something that didn’t exist at all. Maybe he was never meant to settle down and live the life he’d heard about in all the stories and tales he’d collected over the years.

That was the third boom-town he’d found that had become a ghost-town just as quickly, it seems. The shells of such briefly prosperous towns line the sides of trails no longer seeing much use, except by reckless cowboys and their driven cattle. No more caravans of everyday people looking to find their fortune in the West, only to find themselves farmers instead. They all hope to do better than sustain themselves on their crops and some livestock, but soon enough they learn that they're just a bad harvest or two away from disaster. 

Aziraphale shivered despite the heat, feeling a chill settle in his gut and sink its claws into him. He knows what that’s like, and that he won’t ever stay somewhere like that again. He’s made for civilization, for being around people even if he’s not made to be in the midst of them. The noise of the forge, and the rows of books no one else will read serve to keep most at bay long enough that he can pretend to like them. 

He walked for miles, rode in the little wagon for miles more. Every night when they stopped, the first thing he did was see to Honeyspice, the only truly stalwart companion he'd had in his life. He groomed the sweat from her hide and led her to water, tethered her in a patch of sweet-smelling grass; all before setting up camp for himself and seeing to his own dinner. When all that was done and he was sure she was cooled off and had a belly full of grass, he fed Honeyspice her dinner of grain and took himself to bed. 

And then the next day he packed it all up and did it all again, day after day after day. Just another cycle of days and weeks he fell into, like the larger cycle of boom and then decay. Sometimes he felt too much like those lonely, all but abandoned places he passed through. Eventually, he came upon a small town in Texas across the Red River.

He wouldn’t call it bustling; that was Aziraphale’s first thought. The town wasn’t booming from what he could tell, but it seemed stable. It looked to have been around for a little while, at least, with no tell-tale signs of a bust heralding the creation of a ghost town in its place. So Aziraphale steeled himself and led Honeyspice through town until he reached a stable where he could put his dear companion up for the night with the bit of money and trade he had left. 

“There now, Honey,” Aziraphale murmured against her neck with a weary sigh as he curried the dried sweat from her coat with a burlap sack wrapped around his fist. The repetitive circular motion soothed him, even as it made his wrist and elbow ache.

"It's all right, we'll be fine," he assured her, though he knew she wasn’t bothered much by all the moving he did. She seemed accustomed to spending time in strange stables, and the traveling frequently—every couple of years if they were lucky, every couple of months if they weren’t.

He knew that, as much as he’d like to think his soft words were for her, they were an attempt to ease? soothe? the pit in his stomach said otherwise. The hollowed-out feeling simply wouldn’t leave him. It didn’t matter how much he ate, or how well taken care of Honeyspice was; no matter how stable a town seemed, he often felt like he heralded their ruin somehow. _Came before like the angels to Sodom and Gomorrah, telling them to leave or to perish._

He was neither an especially righteous man, nor seeking any—just a nebulous something he had no name for, but hoped he would know when he found it. He never left a nice town just because he hadn't found what he was looking for. Every town he had left was either already desolate by the time he departed, or would soon be so.

And he was always careful not to look back

Aziraphale dragged his feet through the rest of their nightly routine; picking Honey's hooves as slowly as he could manage without straining his back, then wiping her down one last time with a soft rag to make her muted red coat shine like a polished stone. Even before he was finished, Honeyspice was turning her fine-boned face, a few shades darker than her body, to watch him with an unimpressed look—as if she had better things to be doing than waiting for his nerves to settle. So he sighed heavily, trying to hide his fond little smile from her, and shoved his hat back on his head before heading to the church. Even if no one there was hiring a farrier or a blacksmith; the church was his best bet for finding someone who knew where he could be of some use.

* * *

The church was lively, with plenty of people still lingering about, and Aziraphale thanked whatever good fortune he might have had that he’d arrived on what looked to be a Sunday. Though he did his best to say his prayers and live kindly, his memory for the days of the week had always been tenuous at best. Working long hours week after week tended to make the days bleed together. And traveling alone, without anyone else to care which days he ought to say extra meaningful prayers on, had made it worse still. 

It took a little while, but the people in town were friendly and willing to bring him into conversations despite his unfamiliar face. Quietly, Aziraphale hoped this town had a good road ahead of it. There were so many people willing to point him the right way, and make introductions to what seemed like half the town, that he couldn’t help but wish the best for them all. He felt like he was being toured around the room until a lovely woman named Marjorie brought him to a man dressed to the nines, all in black. Even his jeans had been dyed dark, which seemed like a vanity only a rich man could afford. And yet, he certainly looked like a fellow who worked with his hands. His lean muscles corded, subtle but not obscured, beneath his dark cotton shirt. The thick leather belt matched his scuffed black boots in both color and wear. Every inch of him looked well-cleaned and shined up for church; a little expensive, perhaps, but certainly not new.

“Oh Mista’ Crowley!” Marjorie called, an excited pep in her step as she near dragged Aziraphale over by the elbow. Which he’d offered to her some minutes back; before her whirlwind adoption of the new blacksmith in town, showing him off like he was her very own son.

“Miss Potts,” Crowley replied; voice like dark honey dripping over crisp nut brittle, sharp and smokey and far smoother than it had any right to be. He smirked in her direction and tipped his dark hat in a lazy, familiar greeting. “You’re lookin’ lovelier than a spring mornin’! But then again, that is certainly your usual.”

“Oh, you rascal!” Marjorie tittered, obviously pleased with the meaningless flirtation, covering her mouth for a moment before putting her hand back on Aziraphale’s crooked arm. “You know it’s missus now. But I wanted to introduce to you Mr. Fell, here. Last I heard you were lookin’ for a blacksmith to see to your horses, hm?”

Aziraphale’s mouth went dry as Crowley turned his gaze away from Marjorie and focused on giving him a long look from head to toe, obviously sizing him up. He’d have straightened his posture if it was possible for it to get any straighter. He’d already been holding his shoulders back and his spine upright to give his best impression.

“Pleasure t'meet ya, Mr. Fell,” Crowley drawled, sweet and slow like dripping molasses. He stuck out his right hand, hip cocked in a way Aziraphale couldn’t help but find distracting. Aziraphale blinked once, slowly, before he realized what the offered hand meant and gripped it with his own for a firm shake.

“Pleasure must be all mine, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale replied with a genuine smile. “As Miss– Mrs. Potts said, I’m a farrier by trade. And you happen to have horses in need, I assume?”

Crowley stared for a few long moments, during which Aziraphale wished desperately that he could see through the darkened spectacles for any hint of what the man was thinking. Abruptly, Crowley began guffawing loudly, smacking Aziraphale’s shoulder friendly-like.

“Me n' you, we're gonna get along jus’ _fine_.” Crowley’s smile looked sharp as a knife’s point, though there seemed to be genuine mirth behind it, so Aziraphale didn’t bother himself with thinking too much about it. Thinking too much about this man’s smile or his laughter seemed like it would be a quick road to ruin, personal or not.

“I like a man who’s got his head on right. Thank ye, Miss Potts,” Crowley tipped his hat at Marjorie, who huffed good-naturedly at him before patting Aziraphale’s shoulder in a kind farewell. Her good deed done, she headed back into the church crowd. “As for you, Mr. Fell, you ever work on a ranch?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and smiled, “Nossir, but my work’s the same wherever it is. So long as you have a forge or someplace I can set up?”

“An’ you ain’t queer about doin' other work? Takin' care of horses and such, not just farriery?" Crowley stepped into Aziraphale's space, looming over him. "Don't have much use for anyone can't lend a hand wherever it's needed. Ranchin' ain't the kinda work where every man does his own thing. I need a jack'a all trades more'n I need a master blacksmith."

Aziraphale stood his ground in the face of Crowley's half-hearted posturing. He wasn't about to let some long-legged, gangly cowboy intimidate him, especially when he was sure he more than had the weight on him.

“Yessir, I take care of my Honeyspice jus’ fine even when we’ve been out and about. Can’t say I know much about cattle, but I do know a bit about horses. I like ‘em, they like me, and I shoe ‘em. But I ain’t worried about any extra work, not if it means there’s bread on the table.” Aziraphale leaned towards Crowley, hardly realizing how close they were. or that sparks seemed to fly between them like embers from a lit forge being fanned into a roaring flame. 

Crowley leaned back suddenly, and the sudden space between them threatened to pull Aziraphale off balance. He caught himself on one small step forward, just enough to keep his feet firmly rooted and the rest of him from stumbling after Crowley.

“Alright then, yer hired. Where’re ya stayin’, and how soon can ya get you'n yours together?”

Aziraphale blinked and smiled happily up at Crowley, pleased beyond measure that he wouldn’t have to waste any time looking for a place to ply his trade. “All I’ve got is me’n my horse and some of our tools. You let me go get her from the stable ‘cross town and I’ll be your man quick as you like.”

Crowley huffed; a wheeze from deep in his chest that sounded almost like a laugh. A silence fell between them, made tense by Aziraphale's feeling of being _watched_.

Once more Aziraphale wished he could see behind those dark glasses; wished he could be sure that Crowley really was staring at him, and that the feeling wasn't just his nerves.

And if Crowley _was_ staring, well... why? What part of Aziraphale could possibly be so eye-catching that it deserved Crowley's undivided attention?

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley said at last, voice once again as dark and sharp as it was when he first greeted Marjorie only moments ago, “You get your horse and your things, meet me by the courthouse ‘cross the street, and we’ll ride back to the ranch. On the way, we'll talk about what you'll be doing for me on the ranch. Then you’ll have the rest of the day to get yourself settled. Sound good?”

Aziraphale nodded in agreement and held out his hand to shake on it. It seemed to surprise Crowley that he'd made the first move this time, and the man hesitated a split second before taking Aziraphale's hand in his own. This handshake was a little more… _something_. Aziraphale couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but it seemed somehow less business-like, and softer. Crowley’s hand seemed to fit perfectly against his palm.

Their immediate ease with one another could only bode well for their working relationship, or so Aziraphale hoped. 

“Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, the absolutely lovely Callus Ran made some amazing art of these two hooligans [meeting at the church here!](https://ran196242.tumblr.com/post/620593559095083008)


	2. The Next Right Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song (and title) is [The Next Right Thing](https://open.spotify.com/track/37FigVNz9Wyf2ZSojwpmid) by Seth Glier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late and a dollar short, oof. 6 months later and finally chapter 2, I hope it was worth the wait at least partially 🙏

Aziraphale wiped the sweat off his brow with his shirt sleeve before he brought the hammer down one more time on a horseshoe, finishing off the curve over the horn of his anvil. With a pleased sigh, he looked it over and, finding no imperfections, set it back in the forge to heat up again. Next, he had to punch the holes into the shoe to lighten it and keep from burdening the horses with too-heavy feet, as well as someplace to drive the nails through.

“Howdy, Aziraphale,” Crowley called lightly from the open doorway , drawl slow and sweet like dark honey.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale nodded and eyed the shoe in the forge. “You comin’ round to work on your ledgers again?”

“Certainly ain’t for the peace and quiet.” Crowley shot back. His wide grin always seemed to somehow make his face more angular, to add a bit of vicious alongside the pleased, like a smiling snake in sand.

Aziraphale only rolled his eyes good-naturedly and set about his own tasks. The table off to the side —hidden from easy view in the doorway but not so far inside the small forge that he'd be unable to come and go as he pleased if Aziraphale was working with something too hot or too time-sensitive for him to make way— had appeared only a week or so into Aziraphale's tenure as the resident blacksmith and farrier. He'd never been particularly inclined to use it himself, it was just far enough out of the way that it was easier to take a seat on the bench or lean against his anvil. But he couldn't be all that upset about it, not when it seemed to come part and parcel with Mr. Crowley and his presence.

Aziraphale watched for a couple moments as Crowley spread out his papers and books on his corner table —because how could it be anyone's but Crowley's?— and settled himself on the single hard chair. With a sharp sigh at himself Aziraphale shoved the horseshoe back into the fire to regain some of its lost heat so he could finish and quench it properly.

He still had another three to finish today so he could reshoe one of the vaquero's horses tomorrow. There was a drive coming up soon and over the last four years he'd gotten a good feel for how long ahead of time to give any of the horses in question on the ranch time to adjust to new shoes. They never seemed to take long; some might call Aziraphale an over-cautious fool, creating more work for himself than he ought, and perhaps they were right, but he slept better at night when he didn't borrow worries.

Once the shoe was heated up to his satisfaction, Aziraphale returned to the anvil and began cutting out the excess from the curved bar of red-hot metal. Looking up, he could see Crowley writing away in the little black journal he kept. It really was a small thing, always tucked in the back of his jeans, the kind meant to be taken out on trails, for all that Crowley rarely —if ever— went out on drives himself anymore.

Crowley had a number of identical journals, distinguishable only by their scuff marks —very so often, it seemed, Crowley bought a handful of the things to keep around— and always, always, had one on him. It was just as much part of the man as his dark glasses and his black hat, if one had asked Aziraphale. Not that anyone did, of course, except for the occasional passing cattle hand paying their way as they drifted across the west jumping from ranch to ranch in search of that eternal, elusive American Freedom that could only be found in the wilds of lands untamed. But that was something else entirely, they asked as a character reference, not that it'd keep them from the job —not in this line of work— but so they knew if the ranchero was hard, cruel, or capricious; so they knew what to expect from him. So, while he'd talked about Crowley before, it'd never been quite in the way he'd wanted. Sometimes it felt like a lake dammed up by his lips and only barely held back.

While Crowley could be capricious on occasion, it never seemed malicious, simply changeable. The man did things on whims that whipped this way and that like a flag in a storm, but he was kind. No matter how he liked to pretend he wasn't, Aziraphale had seen it and could still see it. Even now he looked it —holed up in the corner of a too-hot forge in the dead heat of the day— Crowley looked kind when he thought no one was paying attention.

Aziraphale saw when he glanced around and snuck the horses apple bits from his own snack because they wanted some. How he caught snakes to release away from the herd instead of striking them dead with a shovel. He saw how Crowley was just _kind_ given half a chance to creatures great and small and to his own vaqueros. For all that Aziraphale hadn't been in the west proper long before he came to El Yermo Ranch, he knew that wasn't quite so common. He'd heard plenty of the stories of Rancheros and how they treated their ever-drifting ranch hands.

Aziraphale returned to his work and, with an ease born of practice through the years, he pushed Crowley from his mind. There would always be a part of him that was aware of the man dressed always in black, just as there was a part of him that had always been a compass forever yearning for North and spinning confused when it got there. With Crowley at his back and the feeling of eyes burning into his shoulders and the forge burning hot at his front, Aziraphale put his head down and did his job.

As was his wont, eventually Aziraphale hit his stride and things became routine —heat the shoe, punch two holes into it with hammer and his heavy chisel, return the shoe to the forge to reheat, punch the remaining two holes, quench and reach for his own water off to the side, then start it all over again— and he sang under his breath. After this he had nails to finish, and then in the morning he had horses to see to. And, at some point in all that Aziraphale grew comfortable in the routine of his smithing, of the searing heat of the fire before him and the burn in his arms and back as he beat metal into shape.

It was the closest he'd ever come to God, whoever and wherever He was, Aziraphale thought, it was the closest he'd ever be to holy. The steady ring of hammer on metal and the glow of it underneath his hands as he watched it take shape form the formless nothing it had been before were his church bells and his prayer. The fire purified and was deadly in turn, the hammer beat down on metal and cracked the black scales until they peeled off and the brilliance bloomed, and he dared not touch no matter how beautiful the carmine was beneath.

By the time he finished the last 3 shoes he needed to bend to shape with the strength of his arm and the deft working of his hammer, he'd sung all the hymns he knew under his breath. Sure, he had other songs up there in his head, but the hymns he knew so well they were just like breath in his lungs, like the blood in his veins, he'd been raised on them. Sometimes, not all the time but sometimes, they hurt to think of, they turned the air in his chest to ash and made him cough up black like coal and he feared the bitterness that had lodged itself in his soul like an old splinter would take him over. But recently, recently it'd been easier to turn away from it, to not let it overtake him, to swim to the surface of the constant ever-abiding brackish tides that tried to pull him under…

"Hey, Angel!" Crowley shouted once the last ring of the hammer faded and the trough of water no longer sizzled by his thigh.

"Yessir?" Aziraphale turned and leaned his hip on his sturdy sawhorse where he kept his canteen of water. It was always warm, would always be warm in his forge, so he'd gotten used to it. But there was nothing he'd like more than a dive in a river, or at least to wash his face properly before having to talk with the man before him.

Black-lensed spectacles glinted in the dull light of the sun through dusty windows, and Aziraphale couldn't help his eyes flicking to the small black journal Crowley always kept at hand. He never said what he wrote in it, but nearly every time Aziraphale happened upon him it was out and there was a pencil, or on occasion pen if he was at his desk. The curiosity ate at him, Aziraphale had always loved reading and he couldn't imagine anything Crowley had touched so thoroughly could be anything but interesting.

"Juss'sos you know," Crowley began, steepling his fingers in front of his face and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees like he was interested. His lips curled up into a tempting smile that made Aziraphale's teeth ache with the want to bite down. "I ain't gonna be able ta pay ya this comin' Sunday."

Aziraphale huffed a laugh and ran a hand through his hair with a grimace knowing it was slick with sweat and must be streaked with soot from his hand. Even though he didn't think Crowley had ever looked at Aziraphale the way he'd like to be looked at by him, he still wanted desperately not to be such a mess in front of the man so often.

Crowley started to sigh, but ended up laughing ruefully, his grin growing bigger. His drawl slowed and his voice turned thick and dark like blackstrap molasses in the snow, "Ya see, an' I know you've every right to be angry ‘bout it. Wouldn't even be surprised if ya took a swing at me, but I ain't able ta pay you until the end of the month. Sorry, angel."

Aziraphale smiled back and tried to smother it with a hand rubbing over his jaw, plenty happy to fall into their usual steps. Could conversations be a dance? Could phrases and practiced words each be their own step back and forth until you knew someone so well you might as well be in a dance hall trotting up and down without ever having to touch? Aziraphale thought they might, leastways if his partner was Crowley.

"I ain't about to clean your clock, Crowley." Aziraphale grabbed his canteen and tugged his leather apron free of its tie with the other hand, throwing it over his head and onto the work bench to cross over to the table Crowley was still sitting at. He groaned as he fell into the seat, finally off his feet for the first time since he'd grabbed some cold fry bread and tomatoes left over from breakfast for a short mid-day break.

"Reckon you've got a decent reason." Aziraphale murmured. He drank the rest of his water; the heat of Crowley's sharp eyes on him left him feeling like he was still inches away from the forge still, even through the thick layer of dark glass.

"Can't say I've been decent a day in my life, Mr Fell." Crowley retorted, not quite managing to muffle a chuckle at Aziraphale's snort.

"I've seen you tuck a runt kicked outta your favorite queen's litter in your shirt pocket to make sure it didn't freeze afore you could get the thing fed. You're not the demon you like to pretend at." Aziraphale let his smile bloom free at the aghast look on Crowley's face. It may happen somewhat regularly, it may not be hard, but flustering the man across from him enough to dust his cheeks with pink was an honest joy of Aziraphale's that would never get old.

"Fng– I don– Oh hell, Aziraphale you can't say that tripe out loud!" Crowley squawked. Aziraphale couldn't help the laugh that broke free, and who could blame him? Crowley always styled himself as suave, as if he had all his ducks in a row, but Aziraphale knew better. The man went over his ledgers obsessively, and _maybe_ that's why El Yarno was so successful, but he put quite a lot of effort into his effortlessness.

"It ain't tripe if it's true, sir." Aziraphale smiled innocently at Crowley and hummed to himself, pleased, when Crowley's words tripped over themselves and the blush on his cheeks darkened enough to make the sun-kisses across his face stand out stark.

"But that bein' said," Aziraphale kept on before Crowley could gather himself to pull them back on the trail of their dance, "I'm sure you had a decent reason." This time it was a genuine question, one he often asked without asking.

And, as he always had for reasons Aziraphale simply couldn't fathom, Crowley told him. The breath whooshed from him, deflating like a balloon. "Handful'a horses got out, someone apparently caught that damn demon horse without tellin' me and put it in the pens with the rest of the unbroke lot. Got out, ran off, and we had to buy some fresh from a bait 'n trap couple'a miles off to outfit enough of our boys in time for the next drive…"

"Yeah, alright." Aziraphale replied slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Sounds decent enough."

"And," Crowley said, jumping on the tail end of Aziraphale's sentence, just like he had the first time, "I'll make sure you're fed! I can pay you in that, at least a bit, you won't go hungry or anything on my watch, I just–"

"That's alright." Aziraphale lifted a hand to stop Crowley's mouth, firmly not thinking of any other way he might do so if he was a bit braver. "I trust you."

"You do?" Crowley muttered, and he always sounded so… not wounded, but close. He sounded awed, every damn time Aziraphale said it, no matter that it'd been four years since the first time they had this conversation and Crowley was convinced he'd actually leave. The first time Crowley couldn't pay him, it had been ‘cause he'd paid for some city doctor to come out for Eliseo's wife. She'd been struck with an illness that laid her out somethin' awful for a week, and they still didn't know what caused it. It was a miracle she was alive, really. A delayed fortnight of pay was nothing on the smile on Eliseo's face when she woke.

"Sir." Aziraphale stuck out his hand with a grin. "You got yourself an Arrangement."

Crowley took it and held it firmly in his grasp, his hand cool compared to Aziraphale's fire-hot own, and he'd say Crowley's hands were almost dainty, if he'd never seen Crowley break a wild horse to saddle. They didn't shake, not really, just held their hands together and wrapped their fingers around each other's palms (palm to palm in holy palmers kiss, Aziraphale's traitor mind recited to him in the fancy coast-city accent he'd tried so hard to lose along the way).

And then the moment broke and Aziraphale knew that's all he'd have; their fingertips dragging down the center of palms, falling once they reached heels of hands, and Crowley looking like he'd never thought anything of it at all, not like Aziraphale had. He was alright with that, with this being all there was, Crowley's friendship was no trifle, and it was enough.

It'd have to be.

"Well, this time it ain't gonna be a whole month," Crowley shrugged as he leaned back in the chair and scooped up the little black book and his pencil, rapidly writing things down, muttering words to himself that Aziraphale couldn't make heads nor tails of, but that was alright, too (no matter how much it peaked his curiosity).

"That's alright," Aziraphale murmured, his eyes raking across Crowley's profile now that he wasn't paying attention to him. The glasses blocked his view but Crowley was still writing so Aziraphale figured he was safe to look. "Like I said, I trust you. And you got a decent reason."

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me in a couple of places! I absolutely love to be talked to! Please come interact with me if you're this way inclined~
> 
> My Twitter: <https://twitter.com/Great_Ass_aFire>  
> My Tumblr: <https://d20owlbear.tumblr.com/>
> 
> If you like what I write, please think about supporting me, links in my pinned Tumblr post about how to do so!
> 
> If you liked this, you'll probably like RodeOmens! Which can all be found by various authors (including yours truly) here in the [Can't no preacher man save my soul Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/GothicOmens)


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